


Matters of a Delicate Nature

by Anonymous



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Shameless Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, no regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jizabel and Cassandra have a complicated relationship. If you can call it that.





	Matters of a Delicate Nature

**Author's Note:**

> I condone nothing. This is an unhealthy relationship. Please don’t emulate it. This is consensual, but badly negotiated.

“There's nothing you can assist me with."

Jizabel is up to his wrists in blood, and at the end of his patience with Cassandra. The man decided to visit his laboratory during prime experimentation hours: the early morning, when the world stills, and there are no roving, nasty human voices to distract him from his calling in life—to explore the inner workings of the body.

Cassandra merely grins and leans against a surgically clean operating table, watching the excess blood drain with a faint disinterest.

God, the man infuriates him.

Grey eyes catch his own, and Jizabel returns to searching for the source of tonight's data, with a quietly angry silence. A few more moments of listening to Cassandra's breathing, and Jizabel can't help himself from adding coldly, haughtily, "Don't you have a social affair to attend?"

"Not tonight."

Of course. Cassandra decided to spend his evenings off from debauchery with him.

Charming.

Almost endearing, really, or rather would be, if Jizabel wasn't a cynic.

Well, he ought to know that Jizabel didn't have the patience to deal with amateurs, nor could he stand being watched, as if he were only a student and not the brilliant physician who regularly strayed into God's domain over life and death. Of course, if Cassandra kept this up, he'd be seeing God far sooner than he'd ever think. The scalpel itches for Cassandra's throat, even as Jizabel holds it ever so tenderly over the corpse, cutting away at the ligaments that held it together in life.

Cassandra shifts, clearly plotting something, but also wary of the scalpel. Jizabel, in turn, starts to wonder if everyone in Delilah thinks of him as an off-kilter homicidal lunatic, but then remembers that he had carefully cultivated that image himself.

Well.

As Jizabel continues, aware of being on display, he starts to imagine how grand it would be, when Cassandra is dead. No more longing stares, nor more breathy, obscene requests. No more of those goddamned patronizing chuckles, nor that greasy hair.

Cassandra slings an arm across Jizabel's chest, effectively pinning him. Cassandra rests his chin on Jizabel's shoulder and seizes his wrist, immobilizing the scalpel. Jizabel only gave him a level stare in response.

"You should take some rest," Cassandra murmurs.

The sour smell of wine hangs on his breath.

"Is this a proposal?" comes the blunt, cutting reply. "Don't flatter yourself."

Jizabel tries to jerk his wrist free, to no success. For a man who lived a life of leisure rivaling that of Dorian Grey, Cassandra is surprisingly strong. (Jizabel ignores the stirrings that the heat from Cassandra's hand is eliciting; those are irrelevant, though pleasant.)

"I imagine having sex with you would be like sleeping with half of London," Jizabel remarks coldly.

Cassandra only smirks, knowingly, and draws him closer, so that Jizabel's back presses against his chest. The sudden warmth makes his pulse fast and heady. There isn't any hiding the shiver that goes through him, and the heat that starts to gather. God damn it, the man knows how to manipulate him.

”Who was talking about sex, love? “ Cassandra whispers excitedly in his ear. “I’m only interested in your well-being.” 

What a lie. 

Closer, the heavy smell of tobacco smoke always surrounding Cassandra becomes more noticeable. The heat on his wrist, unbearable: he doesn't know if he wants to cut the man open, or turn around and let him have his way. He knows what Cassandra wants, true enough, all of Delilah knew that, but he isn't entirely sure he wanted to leave now. Being around blood always works him into a state, and Cassandra's breath on his neck is not helping.

He knows Cassandra's style—rough, animalistic. He's heard the man's fantasy more often than he'd like, often at Major Arcana meetings, in breathy, lust-tinged whispers with an accompanying stroke along his inner thigh that sometimes edged higher than decent. If there was, in fact, something decent about being felt up during meetings. Cassandra’s fantasies always seemed to end with Jizabel on his hands and knees, being fucked by Cassandra’s whip—and while the thought was... not unappreciated, Jizabel could think of other things he’d rather have up there. Like Cassandra’s cock, for starters, although he tried to not admit that too often to himself. 

But there was the one time Cassandra didn’t start putting his hand on Jizabel’s clothed thigh, and listening to Alexis was not quite the same: it was incomparably dull and he was forced to _actually listen_ to his father’s barely coherent ravings and ill-thought-out plans. A tower in the middle of London? Had he looked at land prices lately? And who was supposed to pay the builders? Were the builders to know that they were a secret cult, or not? 

So, Jizabel did the only thing he really wanted to do, which was to lean over to Cassandra, just enough get his attention, and whisper, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

And Cassandra gave him that self-satisfied smirk, and proceeded to indulge him to the point where keeping a blank face was quite difficult indeed. 

(Although he’s pretty sure Cassandra could have stroked him to orgasm and Alexis would not have noticed.) 

But _distractions_ were quite a different matter than actually sleeping with the man—to give into him was not something Jizabel had given much thought, except when at night when he wasn’t too tired. Then he had given the matter quite a bit of thought. That was the most annoying part about Cassandra—he went years without so much as a spark of lust for anyone, and now he is practically ready to bend over for him at anytime. 

And that, paradoxically, made him quite cross. 

Cassandra's free hand presses against Jizabel's hips, pressing him against his growing bulge.

"You should take some rest," Cassandra repeats, low and insistent, watching his face.

"Take your own advice," Jizabel replies, as calmly as he can muster, his hands curling into fists. It takes some restraint for him not to press back into that lovely hardness at him.

With an insufferable grin, Cassandra loosens his grip on Jizabel's wrist. "Perhaps I will."

Jizabel takes the opportunity to free himself from Cassandra's embrace, but as he moves to return to his task, the heat lingers. It is as if his skin couldn't forget the overpowering warmth. Another cut in the corpse's clammy skin fails to distract him—all he can think of is the warmth.

Frustrated, he throws the scalpel into the sink. It rings out, sharply, before stilling.

"Much better, love," Cassandra chuckles, reclining on a chair, his legs carelessly spread.

As Jizabel begins to wash his hands, he becomes aware of the way he bends over the sink, of the pooling heat that just will not leave. He hates the man, certainly, but he also has the equally irritating, irrational impulse to... indulge himself before he had him killed.

He shrugs the laboratory coat off, to a long, approving stare, and places it on the back of a chair. The air cools his skin.

"Happy now?" he snaps. "You've ruined my concentration."

Another patronizing chuckle decides Cassandra's fate. Jizabel doesn't care about the consequences—he never has. The scalpel is light in his hand, light like an angel's kiss. A kiss from the angel of death. He thinks he sees a note of alarm on Cassandra's face, as he advances towards him.

He crawls onto his lap, bracing himself with one hand on Cassandra's thigh. He can feel the firmness of Cassandra's body through his trousers, and ignores the deepening of the heat in his veins. He wants to laugh at the triumph in Cassandra's eyes.

What a fool.

"Kept me waiting long enough," Cassandra purrs, seemingly oblivious to the scalpel. Leave it to Cassandra to mistake an instrument of death for something else. Then again, given the rumors circulating in Delilah, that was the very least of what went on in Cassandra's bed.

"I have," Jizabel murmurs, surveying the pulsing veins in Cassandra's throat. Lovely and visible. His hand finds a lovely one in the side of Cassandra's neck.

Feigning desire, Jizabel raises the scalpel, out of sight, or so he thinks, and before the flood of warmth engulfs him, as he tries to drive the blade across the other man's throat, Cassandra effortlessly seizes his wrist again.

"We've been through this already," Cassandra scolds, infuriatingly patient. His grip is unyielding.

No fool, then.

Cassandra frowns as he applies pressure, enough pressure to make Jizabel drop the scalpel. It falls somewhere behind them, and as Jizabel searches for the telltale flash, Cassandra forces a kiss.

It's all a bit too much. The warmth surrounds him, false as it is, and Jizabel's traitorous body moves against Cassandra's to satisfy itself, before he realizes what he's doing. A grin tells him that Cassandra's caught him now. Another deep, throaty chuckle.

"Shall we?" Cassandra breathes, lust quickening his words.

It's not a question.

They are hands and hot, hot mouths, half whispers and soft moans. Jizabel runs his hands across the pale skin, searching for the cold blue of veins. He wants to kill Cassandra and bury his hands in that inexhaustible warmth. He wants Cassandra to bend him over and fuck him sore. He wants Cassandra to leave bruises on him, to kiss him, to force him to love him in that hideous way Cassandra excels at.

 Cassandra only buries his head in Jizabel's hair, inhaling deeply. 

It's a strange pause, a heavy lull in their fevered movements.

"The only way to get rid of temptation," Cassandra whispers, combing his fingers through Jizabel's hair, "is to yield to it."

Jizabel recognizes the quote from that Wilde novel. The irony of a man giving into debauchery and dying for it, however, seems fully lost on Cassandra. Hell, he probably thinks of Dorian as a role model.

"I didn't know you could read," Jizabel says nastily.

He's thrilled momentarily at the sudden hurt that flashes across Cassandra's face, and then wonders if he's done something foolish by angering a dangerous man like Cassandra.

Cassandra's only response is a hard kiss, more a demonstration of power than love, before he roughly maneuvers Jizabel so that he bends over the table.

Ah, lovely. Back to the table now. The perfect place to get sodomized by the man he hates the most.

“When you say things like that, love,” Cassandra says in that infuriating parental tone, making Jizabel acutely aware of the bulge pressing against him, “you make me suspect you don’t really love me.”

”I don’t,” he replies to distract himself from pondering the... _mechanics_ of it all. 

Jizabel’s not sure when he suddenly got on board with sodomy. He knew from his studies that it could be immensely pleasurable, but to let _Cassandra_ be the one to do it...

“Then I’ll just have to make you,” Cassandra concludes in a manner that hardens Jizabel’s cock. (How had he not known this about himself before?) 

Then he roughly yanks Jizabel's trousers to his mid-thighs, and then dispenses with them. The rougher treatment thrills Jizabel to no end. It satisfies that part of him that thrives on attention, as Cassandra grinds against him, his intentions startlingly clear. A brief tinge of fear is quickly replaced by the deadening lust coursing through Jizabel.

“We’ll start slow,” Cassandra says, still fully clothed, and Jizabel has the mad urge to sink to his knees and unfasten Cassandra’s trousers for him. Take out the cock pressing against him and take it into his mouth.

Christ, he can’t remember being this worked up over another man since his university days. He swallows hard against the urge to prepare himself for Cassandra—anything to start feeling something beyond heavy petting.

Cassandra opens a jar, dipping his fingers in the oil inside, and showing them off to Jizabel. 

Oh, goody. He was going to get a _show_ with his sodomy. Well, there were far worse things done in his laboratory than a little bit of lust. 

“But first, preparation,” Cassandra says, his breathing strained at this point. Clearly Jizabel is not the only one getting off on the whole idea, though he suspects Cassandra is more into the novelty of being the first to put his cock up his arse. And Jizabel, hideously enough, wants him to be. 

He is definitely not going to think too long on that one. 

“You’ve been awfully silent, love. Not sulking, I hope?” Cassandra breathes rather heavily, as one slick finger circles his entrance, only circling. Not to soothe him, Jizabel quickly realizes, but to remind him what is about to happen. Oil runs down the back of his thighs in minuscule streams. 

Cassandra changes tactics, combing Jizabel’s hair away from his neck, leaving it exposed for a kiss. “The thing is, dearest,” he continues in a low, yet still indulgent tone. “I need to hear some words from you if we are to continue. Words like _yes_ , _no_ , and _Cassandra, please fuck me_.”

A quick peck at his throat. Cassandra’s hair brushes against his exposed skin, and Jizabel stifles a moan. 

“And I want to hear the last one most of all.” 

Jizabel nearly shivers at the coldness of the oil on his skin. He wets his lips, as Cassandra continues to lavish attention on his neck while firmly holding him down. 

“Yes,” he says at last. 

Cassandra gives a low hum of interest as he smirks. “What was that, love?”

Jizabel draws in another breath, aware of Cassandra’s still frustratingly clothed erection near his backside. “Yes, Cassandra.” 

“Say it,” Cassandra breathes into his ear, glee entering his voice. “I want to hear you.” 

“Take me, Cassandra.” 

“Manners, manners,” he scolds playfully. “What did I tell you?” Still, he holds Jizabel’s wrists firmly down on the table.

Jizabel swallows again, a low ache    in his groin at this little game of theirs. Cassandra already knew he wanted to be taken as roughly as Cassandra could manage; this must simply be for Cassandra’s own pleasure. Unfortunately, he was enjoying it too. 

“Please fuck me, Cassandra,” he manages through gritted teeth, bucking his hips a little at the pressure. Christ, it almost kills him to say that.

”Good boy,” Cassandra replies, chuckling. “Next time we work on tone, love.” 

A slick finger returns to lightly press on the ring of muscle. “Exhale,” he says, and as Jizabel does, it slides inside him. 

He gasps in shock at the intrusion.

“Relax, love,” Cassandra says, lazily. “It won’t hurt. Let it inside you.” 

Trying to relax his muscles, Jizabel finds himself conflicted with a variety of sensations: the queer, probing one of something inside him, the humiliation of being spread open with Cassandra's finger in an exceedingly private place of his, and the growing discomfort of it all.

”Does it feel good?” Cassandra asks. “Probably not yet, hm?” 

It's revenge, for Jizabel's sharp words, that he knows. The discomfort only increases as a second finger soon joins it, attempting to open him. But Cassandra certainly does not care about his discomfort.

He revels in it.

Jizabel counts quietly to ten, fully intent on informing Cassandra at the end of the count that he's had quite enough of this, and that if he wants to fuck something, there’s a jar of lactic acid he can start with.

Then Cassandra's long, soft fingers curl around his cock, and a jolt goes through him as those fingers play with the head, toying with his foreskin. He’s not sure how Cassandra is managing it, but the stimulation at both ends makes him start to thrust into Cassandra’s hand.

“Good,” Cassandra says, indulgently. “Good. Only I can touch you now, understand?”

Something inside Jizabel understands just perfectly—he wants to be used by this man, and he’s not sure if his newfound submission isn’t just the outcome of some hypnosis or if he’s so fucked up that he earnestly wants to be fucked by a man like Cassandra. 

He sadly suspects the latter. 

Cassandra brushes over that lovely ball of nerves, whose uses Jizabel had studied in books, and not, as Cassandra likes to fantasize, in secret on his back.

”Ah!” 

Jizabel closes his eyes against the overwhelming jolt of pleasure that comes from Cassandra's fingers on his prostrate. “There,” he manages. “Go there again.”

God, he can feel the man grinning.

Cassandra abandons his secondary attention to Jizabel’s cock to better focus on the joys of fingerfucking. Cassandra adds more oil, still more oil, and proceeds to make a great show of finding his nerves, alternating between rubbing the spot and thrusting.

Jizabel groans at one particularly pleasurable tremor, and instinctively angles his hips so that Cassandra can penetrate deeper.

It's an offer Cassandra does not refuse. For a little while, Jizabel wonders if he means to make him come this way, with the way his fingers wetly thrust in and out of him, and whispering obscenities in his ear. 

“Not as good as a cock, is it?” he murmurs, vaguely amused at the sight. “Tell me, do you want it now? A hard cock?”

The telltale heat coils in his groin, and Jizabel meets Cassandra's thrusts, feverishly. “Yes,” he admits begrudgingly, hating the part of him that feels so open, so ready to have Cassandra undo his trousers and finally fill him with his cock. “Yes, Cassandra.” 

He’s on the brink now, just a little bit more—! 

He wets his lips, his heart pounding as his muscles tense in preparation. “Cassandra—Cassandra, I’m close—almost—“

Cassandra abruptly stills his fingers, leaving them inside but stubbornly motionless, denying Jizabel his release. “Not yet,” he says, and Jizabel has privately quite different opinions on the matter. 

He tries to get any sort of friction out of Cassandra’s fingers, but Cassandra only chuckles and withdraws them. "That's quite enough," Cassandra playfully scolds. "Wouldn't want to spoil the main event."

As the tension unsatisfyingly leaves him, a strange sort of relief and then disappointment wash over Jizabel at the resulting emptiness and his denied release, while behind him, he hears Cassandra prepare himself, breath catching as he frees his length.

"Are you just going to touch yourself?" Jizabel snaps, frustrated now by the emptiness. He raises himself up, tired of staring at the now-dried bloodstains along the rim of the sink. He feels unsteady, his circulation returning from being bent over a table with his legs spread. Not quite what he had been expecting. 

"Patience," Cassandra purrs. "Unless you want to help out."

Jizabel gives him a dangerous smile. He surveys Cassandra’s erection. It's thicker than he had thought, and he’s suddenly not sure if this was a good idea after all, despite his urges. 

"Don't you know what to do with your prick?" Jizabel asks, a bit of mockery creeping into his voice, trying to distract himself from the notion that this cock is about to be in him, or more precisely, in his arse.  

Cassandra ignores the insult, noticing an opportunity. An indulgent smile creeps onto his lips. "Do you?"

With Cassandra's eyes on him, Jizabel runs a finger over the reddened head, and down the length, to Cassandra's approval.

"Good boy," Cassandra murmurs.

Jizabel pretends to be unaffected, but the pleasant jolt that goes through him says otherwise.

He plays coy, noticing how Cassandra's length twitches in his hand as he lightly, idly strokes it, circling the head in a slowly torturous manner.

”Go on,” Cassandra breathes. “Enjoy it.” 

Jizabel feels the slight pressure of Cassandra’s hands on his shoulders, pressing him down and realizes that Cassandra wants him to suck him off for a little. 

Hating himself, he obeys. He kneels before Cassandra, sliding off Cassandra’s dark linen trousers to reveal the rest. He palms Cassandra’s swollen sack, squeezing slightly. Cassandra sighs and brings his hands to Jizabel’s throat, using his thumbs to tilt Jizabel’s head upwards. 

It’s not enough force to hurt, but the careful exercise of control thrills Jizabel even as he feigns nonchalance. 

They lock stares for a few moments, as Cassandra savors the heady pleasure of being looked up at. He’s half surprised Cassandra doesn’t come from that alone. Then, keeping his gaze on Cassandra, he takes the tip of Cassandra’s cock into his mouth. 

Cassandra sighs at the sudden warmth, shifting his hands to Jizabel’s hair. 

Jizabel contents himself with lavishing his attention on the head, wrapping a hand around the shaft, occasionally leaving it to cradle Cassandra's sack. He laps at the leaking pre-come, following Cassandra's groaned directions, and a familiar pleasure comes over him, he laps into the routine of pleasuring another man. 

Cassandra entangles his hands in Jizabel's hair, making an almost admirable show of restraint as he rocks into Jizabel's hand and mouth, not as harder or deep as he would like, but evidently realizing that Jizabel did not want a cock down his throat—and was not about to be convinced otherwise.

He knows Cassandra is getting off on the sight of him kneeling before him. Cassandra's ego and cock are inseparable. He looks up at Cassandra, and as their gazes lock onto each other again, Cassandra groans and his cock twitches. 

Another few minutes of this renders Cassandra close to his little death, fortunately enough for Jizabel. His legs have begun to ache, and his desire has yet to be fulfilled.

One last, desperate, short thrust from Cassandra, his prick straining, stiff, and swollen, and Cassandra pulls away.

"E-enough," he groans, and Jizabel complies, darkly satisfied at the sight of Cassandra, panting, loosening his tie and trying to regain his composure.

Rising to his feet, he wipes away the saliva at the edges of his mouth, and as he does so, Cassandra notices the way his reddened lips are still parted. Cassandra gives him a rough kiss, gripping his hair roughly, and Jizabel surrenders to it, Christ, he surrenders to this man’s will. 

Cassandra pauses, taking in the sight of Jizabel, dazed and submissive.

"Get on your hands and knees," Cassandra demands, raking a hand through his greasy, ill-advised haircut. "Now."

Jizabel quickly obeys, quietly thankful he bullied the maids into cleaning the floor yesterday. He listens to Cassandra undress and fold his clothes on the back of the chair. Deep, half-groans as he applies oil to his sensitive cock and tries not to come while doing so.

He gives Jizabel's erect length a playful tug, before forcing his legs further apart. The oil is cold, as Cassandra applies a generous amount to Jizabel's entrance. Cassandra then shifts behind him, positioning himself.

Balancing himself precariously, Jizabel helps Cassandra to line himself up with his entrance, feeling the already slick cock leak still more precome as it teases his stretched hole. More oil snakes down Jizabel’s thighs, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take. 

"Ready?" Cassandra asks, the arrogance returning to him. He puts a hand on Jizabel’s lower back for both reassurance and dominance. 

“Yes,” Jizabel says, his pulse quickening.

”As you wish,” Cassandra chuckles. He begins to slowly mount Jizabel, and Jizabel gasps as the swollen head pushes against his entrance, pressing and pressing past the muscle, hard and unyielding—

"Give in to me" Cassandra breathes into his ear, "or I will make you."

That does the trick. It's a bluff, of course, Jizabel could easily end this and Cassandra knows that, but Jizabel is irritated at how quickly Cassandra has realized how turned on he is by feigned force. His body has other feelings about Cassandra, unfortunately. As arousal loosens Jizabel's body. Cassandra seizes the opportunity to push more deeply in, to another cry of pain-pleasure.

Jizabel focuses on his breathing, letting his body instinctively relax on the exhales. Cassandra pauses, letting him have the first few moments to reorient himself, and then begins to thrust on every other exhale. 

Jizabel groans as the head slips inside at last, and his body stretches to accommodate Cassandra. His hands search for something to grip, as Cassandra holds him in place and pushes inside him in small thrusts.

"Easy now," Cassandra manages, his voice strained now. He tries to redirect Jizabel's attention with a quick peck to his throat, and Jizabel doesn't quite understand why, tenderness is a foreign concept to him, until he realizes that Cassandra knows what sort of game he's playing.

It's a dangerous one, because Jizabel's found the scalpel again. It's a little way from the chair, tucked between the wall and a side table littered with bloody gauze and rough, black thread, within easy reach.

One wrong move, and Cassandra will be choking on his own blood from a scalpel wound. But if he plays his cards right, he gets to fulfill his desires.

Jizabel nearly laughs at it all.

Cassandra's sack brushes against him, as the last of his length is finally buried inside him, solid and heavy. He's not quite sure how it finally happened, but its presence is certainly felt. Jizabel rolls his hips at the overwhelming pressure, noting the pleasant heaviness of Cassandra on top of him, fully sheathed within him.

Cassandra stills inside him, and Jizabel tries to not think on how the man he despises the most is currently up his arse, although the pleasantly throbbing cock makes it difficult to ignore.

It's equally difficult to ignore when Cassandra begins to move inside him.

Jizabel muffles his cry, as Cassandra thrusts into him, groaning at the heat of Jizabel's body. His movements send waves of pleasure-discomfort through his body, and at some point, the discomfort gives in. His body adjusts, and waves of ecstasy crawl up his spine, as he is filled and stretched. 

Under the bliss, Jizabel sincerely hopes that no one will find him under Cassandra. Especially with all the unnecessary noise Cassandra was making. (Dr. Zenopia usually slept early, right? He couldn't remember right now.)

He didn't need confirmation of the rumor that they were secretly fucking floating around Delilah. Especially since Cassandra would be sure to dispel that rumor with a detailed account over breakfast.

Despite his evident wish to the contrary, Cassandra sets a reasonably slow, controlled pace to prevent tearing. Jizabel angles his hips, trying to find that delicious place Cassandra had reached earlier, and Cassandra complies, grinning. 

The momentum grows even as Cassandra begins to fuck him in earnest, the building pressure from earlier quickly returns. God, he hates the man, but the throbbing, unyielding, solid cock deep inside him, the way Cassandra groans as he thrusts into him, the onslaught of warmth, that wasn't so bad.

It's all too much even though Cassandra has really only just begun. His breath catches, and he shudders as he quietly comes, clenching around Cassandra’s length.

"Good boy," Cassandra says through his strained voice, more pleased with his ability to pleasure than Jizabel, but the effect is the same. An almost affectionate stroke down Jizabel's back nearly makes him come again, if that were possible.

Fortunately for Jizabel’s now oversensitive body, Cassandra doesn’t last much longer either. He stiffens and jerks suddenly, shallowly and noisily thrusting through his climax. A traitorous jolt goes through Jizabel at the groans Cassandra makes as he spills into him, holding him in place as Cassandra’s hot seed fills him.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Cassandra teases breathlessly.

His length softens within Jizabel, but he does not withdraw it, preferring to be a deadweight on Jizabel's back.

Jizabel is inclined to agree, but would rather not admit it.

He's sore now, feeling thoroughly used and spent. Cassandra’s hands roam his body, teasing him even as Jizabel barely resists the lure of sleep, and finally, Cassandra settles for another peck at his throat, before withdrawing his length.

Jizabel desparately wants to sleep now. Oil is trickling thickly down his thighs, and as he cleans and re-dresses in silence, he's only barely cognizant of the room. Chronic sleep deprivation and a sore satisfaction take their toll.

He remembers the scalpel, and as he picks it up, Cassandra moves closer.

"We must do this again, soon," Cassandra whispers, grinning as he adjusts his cuffs. He allows himself another kiss, and before the blade can open Cassandra's veins in a deluge of warmth and hatred, the man is gone.

Another day, then.


End file.
